


The Sum of All Our Scavenged Parts

by websandwhiskers



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All the Angst and Feels, Discussion of Abortion, Discussion of Canonical Suicide, Discussion of Emotional Abuse/Recovery aka Chris Argent Figures Out His Family Was Never Okay, Everybody Gets Their Shit Together, Family, Found Family, Multi, Overcoming of Prejudice, Pack Feels, ProLife Character, Prochoice Character, Teenage Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/websandwhiskers/pseuds/websandwhiskers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks after the end of Season 2, Allison discovers she's pregnant.  She's keeping the baby.  Everyone is going to have to deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sum of All Our Scavenged Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks should go to [slythhearted](http://slythhearted.tumblr.com/) for convincing me that this wasn't total self-indulgent crack (or at least was the good kind of self-indulgent crack) and that I should actually write it, and also listening to me babble about it at great length. And, y'know, convincing me to watch Teen Wolf in the first place. Because I needed a shiny new obsession. I didn't have enough of those.

“Allison?”

 A quick, bleary glance at the alarm clock tells Scott it is a little after 2AM, and the damp, chill feeling that woke him is the breeze coming in his window, ruffling the curtains. He can hear a rumble of thunder way off and moving, passing out of town. The air smells like he's just missed a torrential downpour, and Allison, standing with her hands clutched together in front of the window, is dripping wet.

 He's wide awake and scrambling out of bed in a moment, tripping over the pile of jeans he'd left on the floor and cursing when he catches himself on the corner of his desk and said sharp corner digs painfully into his palm. With the hand that isn't suddenly tingling with pins and needles, he rips the blanket off his bed, stumbles the remaining few steps to the window, and tries to wrap it around her shoulders. “What happened, what's wrong?”

 The blanket falls off her left shoulder, hangs on the right for a moment, making her look like some sort of Grecian still-life, artfully draped, then slips to the floor in a tangled puddle. Her eyes are huge, and she still hasn't said anything. She is in pajamas, he realizes – a huge tee-shirt and a pair of tiny boxers. He's seen both before, on and off of her, but soaked through and plastered to her skin they suddenly make her look less sexy and more breakable.

 She walked there looking like that. In a thunderstorm.

 “Allison, you're scaring me,” Scott says, giving up on the blanket and just rubbing his hands awkwardly up and down her arms – unsure if he's really allowed to do that anymore, but in this moment? Screw it.

 “We need to run away,” she says. “Now. Like -” She gives herself a shake, brushes his hands off, and goes to his closet. “Do you have a suitcase? I left the car because I was afraid Dad would hear me start it up, and if we play this right I can pretend I'm just going to school, but you have to be ready.”

 “What?” Scott walks over to where she is rifling through his clothes and pulling out hoodies and his snow boots. “Allison, wait – why – don't take this wrong, I'm thrilled that you . . . apparently want to get back together with me? But this is – what's going on?”

 “I can get Lydia to cover for me through tomorrow afternoon, I think,” Allison says to the closet, “So we'll have a good head start. We should head south – somewhere that the summer will last longer, so that we have more time before we absolutely need to be able to afford a real place with heat because of the weather. There's some money that . . that Aunt Kate left to me.” She pauses and sucks air.

 “Allison -”

 “So we'll have to empty that out tomorrow afternoon, preferably before we get too far, so we don't tip Dad off to the direction we're going. I don't want to sink it all into hotel rooms, though, we'll be fine in the car for a while – maybe we can trade up for a van, that might be a good idea. I have a tent, though, we can just hit up camp sites for a while. It'll raise less suspicion with our ages anyway.”

 “Allison, _stop!_ ” Scott exclaims, grabbing her as gently as he can by both arms and spinning her around to face him. She has a pile of flannel shirts draped over one arm, and she is crying. “What is going on?”

 “My dad's going to kill you,” she says. “And he'll make me -” She stops and swallows back against her tears, snuffles, and bringst her chin up. “I'm not going to let that happen. We'll be fine.”

 “Of course we'll be fine,” Scott says reassuringly. “I have faith in you. In us. We're going to be totally fine – just, could you tell me what's going on?”

 “I'm pregnant,” she blurts.

 Scott absolutely does not mean to drop his hands from her arms and back up a step. He knows how wrong that reaction is the instant he does it, but he still does it, and when he tries to correct it – to reach out to her – she's backing away from him. He knows, in that moment, just knows, that he is going to regret that reaction for the rest of his life.

 “You're – how?” he asks. “We were always careful!”

 “Well, apparently not careful enough,” she says. “Don't look at me like that, you knew this was possible, you knew I wasn't on the pill and condoms aren't perfect and -”

 “I know, I know, I know that!” Scott cuts her off, trying again to reach out for her, but she just backs further away, still clutching his flannel shirts. “I'm not – I don't mean to be looking at you like . . . anything. It's just . . . wow?”

 “I thought you'd want -” She stops and swallows again. “Maybe I thought wrong. I'm keeping it. You can come with me or not.”

 “Of course I'm coming with you!” Scott exclaims. “I mean – no, I'm not, because we're not going anywhere, Allison, that is not a good idea. You have to see that's not the way to handle this!”

 “Really? Because I think it's the only way to handle this,” Allison retorts. “The only way that doesn't end with you dead and my dad marching me to the nearest Planned Parenthood, possibly at literal gunpoint.”

 “We won't let that happen,” Scott insists.

 “How?” Allison demands,dropping the shirts where she stands, her shoulders slumping. “How, Scott?”

 “I don't know yet, but we'll figure it out. I'm not going to let anything happen to you,” he insists.

 Allison's face just scrunches up with further tears at that. “That's nice, Scott, that's really, really sweet, but what are you going to do? I don't want you to kill my dad, either. He's just – he's just been through so much -”

 This time, when Scott tries to take her into his arms, she lets him.

 “I'm sorry,” she sobs into his shoulder.

 “It's not your fault,” Scott says, rubbing her back, feeling a bit like he is standing on a thin, thin wire over a huge, dark chasm, and Allison's flat stomach is pressed against his and fucking hell, there's a _baby_ in there. His baby. Their baby.

 Their potentially half-werewolf baby?  Does that come by halves?

 “It's half my fault,” Allison sniffles.

 “Well then it's half mine,” Scott insists. “It's gonna be okay. We'll figure it out.”

 That's what he says, but . . . it's sinking in, slowly, but it is.

 He doesn't want to be a dad.

 Maybe not _never,_ but . . his own dad sucked and he saw what it did to his mom, that his dad sucked, and he doesn't ever want to be that - but he also doesn't want to be responsible for anyone else. His mom is enough, and Allison is different but . . . he doesn't want to be his dad. He wants them to grow up and go to college together and get a first apartment together and have sex on the kitchen counter in the daytime and see each other off to their first days of their first real jobs and be able to buy a house like her parents' house and . . . not be this.

 He wants to get it _right,_ and this isn't – this can't – how can this end up like that? This doesn't end up like that, this ends up with too many bills and an apartment right now somewhere unsafe and dirty and shitty jobs and them eventually hating each other. That's how this ends, and how had this happened? They'd been careful.

 And it could all just un-happen and they could be right back on track for that awesome life, maybe brought closer by this trying experience, if she'd be okay with just . . not having it. It make sense.

 He's going to hate himself for thinking that, for the rest of his life. For the rest of his _kid's_ life.

 There is a person in her belly who is going to grow up into someone like him or her, someone who will know getting pregnant at seventeen isn't something anyone does on purpose, and he doesn't want that, doesn't want it.

 There is no possible way this can be okay. There goes his entire life. There goes _her_ entire life, and what kind of douchebag is he to think it's her fault for not being willing to fix it? He did this to her.

 And she is still clinging to him, even though he'd flinched when she'd told him.

 “It'll be okay,” Scott murmurs into Allison's hair, the same tone he'd used after his mom had to call the police on his dad, and she was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, surrounded by broken dishes and crying. “We're gonna be fine. All – all of us. We'll be fine.”

 “Promise?” she asks.

 “Promise,” Scott says.

***

Melissa McCall gets home from her overnight shift at a little past six in the morning to find her son and his girlfriend sitting on the couch waiting for her, holding hands.

Allison looks like she's been crying.

 _Oh, fuck,_ Melissa thinks, and because it was a rough shift and a long night and a long month and year and _life,_ lately, what she says is also, “Oh, fuck.”

Scott looks faintly shocked; Allison just looks white around the mouth.

Melissa pulls her keys from the door, drops them into her purse, and drops her purse on the floor.

“Mom -”

She holds a hand out, one finger up – _hold up a minute._ Scott, bless him, does. He's a good kid, she tells herself, they have a good relationship, one that has recently survived a great deal of shock and strain. He is a strong, brave person who makes her proud, is her son. She tells herself this because she has the distinct feeling that she's going to want to kill him in about a minute and a half.

Melissa goes into the kitchen; she can hear the kids whispering the minute she's around the corner, Allison anxious, Scott reassuring – but also scared. He's got his brave voice out. Not good, that.

She fills a mug with water and sticks it in the microwave, gets the instant coffee out of the cabinet, and while the water is heating, pours herself a tall glass of grapefruit juice. Scott always makes a face at this combination, but it keeps her blood sugar level and her head on straight and she's had a stomach of cast iron for longer than he's been alive, so the hell with what Scott thinks. The sound of her chugging the juice is loud in her own ears, drowning out the desperate mutterings from the next room. She's finished, and leaves the dirty glass on the counter, by the time the microwave dings.

Armed with a mug full of what is basically instant coffee paste, _just_ shy of undrinkable, Melissa ventures back out into her living room. Scott and Allison go quiet again, their eyes tracking her like rabbits frozen in front of a lawn mower. _I am not the lawn mower_ , Melissa wants to snap, but is too damn tired, so, so much more tired than she was ten minutes ago, when she was driving home from a night as normal as her nights go anymore, rolling her eyes at the stupidity of early morning talk radio, blissfully ignorant. _Whatever you've done, and I think I know, that's the lawn mower._

She sets the coffee on a side table, sits in the chair across from the couch, and drops her forehead into her hands. “Okay,” she says to the floor. “Lay it on me.”

“Mom, we're – Allison and me – we're having a baby.”

He sounds so determinedly chipper about it, but she can hear the fear. Her little boy is afraid. She's torn in half. She wants to hate that girl over there, the one who is doing this to _her_ baby, the one who has the choice and is apparently chosing to destroy her son's life – but she looks up and that girl is looking at her like she knows.

“That's what I thought you were going to say,” Melissa sighs, and shakes her head, and takes a long, long drink of her coffee. “Having a baby. That sounds pretty decided.” She locks eyes on Allison, whose fingers are clutched around Scott's hand tightly enough that her nails have got to be digging in. “You can't be very far along.”

“I don't know,” Allison says. “I haven't been to a doctor yet.”

“Of course not,” Melissa says, shakes her head, and drinks more coffee. The mug is suddenly empty. Why is the mug empty? Because the universe hates her, that's why. She looks back at Allison. “You must be so, so overwhelmed right now.”

Melissa thinks she's being gentle, she's trying hard, she's not yelling or accusing. She thinks she's doing damn fucking well, all things considered, but rather than seeing Melissa's empathy and crumbling, asking for guidance like she damned well ought to do and the poor girl just lost her own mother – it backfires. Spectacularly.

Allison lets go of Scott's hand, and her jaw hardens and her eyes take on this look that makes Melissa remember what Scott's told her of what this girl can do with a weapon in her hand.

And _this_ girl, this little girl with the gorgon eyes, is pregnant with her baby's baby. Oh God, oh God, oh _God._

“I'm not killing my baby,” Allison declares.

“No one's saying -”

“That's what _everyone_ is going to say,” Allison cuts her off. “I'm seventeen, what else are they supposed to say?”

Scott just fumbles for her hand again; Allison lets him take it, but she's not clinging anymore. In a wild, lost sort of way, that makes Melissa feel a little better. It's all degrees of drowning, but at least . . something. She doesn't know what. She's scared of this girl, she realizes, but she'd rather her son picked someone scary than someone weak.

“Fine,” Melissa says, raising her hands wide and then letting them fall back to her knees. “Fine, then I'm just going to say it, and you can just listen for a minute – you two are so, _so_ unprepared to be parents. Neither one of you has a real job, I don't think either one of you has ever even taken care of a _pet,_ and that's not even getting into everything else that is already so _incredibly_ , surreally fucked up with your lives and yes, Scott, your mother is cursing, I'm saying fuck, you've apparently _been fucking,_ so I think you can handle it.”

Oh God, when had she turned into this screeching harpy?

“We were careful,” Scott says faintly. “Really, we were always careful, we weren't irresponsible, I don't know how it happened.”

Allison's so white about the lips that if she were still at work, Melissa would be paging someone to get the girl a wheelchair before she fainted.

“Nothing's perfect,” Allison says flatly, quietly, to no one in particular, and it's such a blanketly true, apt statement, and yet so useless, that Melissa kind of wants to laugh hysterically. Instead she sucks in a long, deep breath.

“You have all the time in the world to have a family,” Melissa says, more calmly. “If you're serious about each other, and I can see that, I can see that you are, you can have this, later, when it's the right time. When you can do it _right_ , Scott – Scott, you know how hard it's been sometimes since your father left, how money's gotten tight, and that's not even, not even _close_ to how hard things are going to be for the two of you.”

“I know,” Scott says, and his face looks like he _does_ know. Of course he does, he was there, he bore the brunt of more than she ever wanted him to and of _course_ he knows. “I'll get a better paying job – maybe construction work? I swear, I'm going to do this right. I'm not going to be like Dad.”

Couldn't he have just stabbed her?

“Of course you're not, baby,” Melissa says, and she's back to holding her head in her hands, only now she's trying not to cry. “I know that. I would never, ever think that,” she says, her face to her knees, “but I don't _want_ this for you.”

“Allison's scared to go home.”

That brings Melissa's head up. “Define scared,” she says, eyes shifting between them. Scott still just looks shell-shocked and earnest and Allison still looks somewhere between pathetic and mythically terrifying, and neither one of their faces tell her anything of use.

“My dad's not going to want me to have the baby,” Allison says.

“I don't think it's the best choice for you either,” Melissa says bluntly, “I really don't, and I wish you'd think about everything you're throwing away, and how much it's going to kill you to have a child you can't provide for the way you're going to want to, because what you're feeling now, it's hormones, it's instincts, but once that baby is born – you're going to want to give it the world, and right now you _can't._ ” The words fall out in a desperate rush, she doesn't even mean for them to, they just do. “But -” she holds up a hand as Allison is opening her mouth to argue, “but that's not my call, and it's not your father's either. It's your choice, no matter what any of us think.”

“He'd make me,” Allison says.

“He can't,” Melissa retorts. “Legally, he can't.” She sighs. “If he throws you out, you can live here, that's not even a question. That's my grandbaby you're having, Christ, I'm not going to let you end up at a shelter. Do you think he's going to throw you out?”

Scott and Allison just share this look, and while Melissa is no expert at reading Allison's face, she does know her son. She's seen that look aimed at Stiles a lot over the years. It's the _just tell her_ face, and it's making her blood run cold.

“Allison,” she says carefully. “Do you think your father would hurt you?”

“He'd be doing it to protect me,” Allison blurts, like she's the one confessing, and oh hell, why? Wasn't the teen pregnancy enough in and of itself? Did it have to be teen pregnancy with side of abusive father? Of course it did, she should know better, it's not like this isn't a thing she sees all the time at work, but just . . why, why why.

“Mom, it's . . not quite like that,” Scott interjects, like he's read her thoughts. “I mean, it's not like her dad beats her, if he did I'd have – I mean, I wouldn't let that happen,” he says, her baby boy, like that's his job. She guesses it is, now. That's the mother of his child. Her child's child. “It's because the baby's – well, it might be like me.”

It actually takes a moment for Melissa to get it, because there are still times when her brain does that – just skips right around the fact that her son _is a werewolf._

And Allison's family hunts werewolves.

And _fuck._

“Jesus,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I'm surprised you didn't just run away together. _Did_ you think about running away?”

“No!” says Scott. “We wouldn't -”

“Yes,” says Allison, and Scott shuts up, throwing her a disbelieving look. “Scott talked me out of it.”

“Good,” says Melissa. “I mean, good that you thought of it – and that you didn't do it, because I'd kill you, just to be clear, if you did that to me I would find you and I would _kill you,_ Scott. But Allison, I'm actually glad you thought of it, because at least you realize what a complete, utter nightmare this is.”

“I know,” Allison says.

“Would he _actually_ kill you?” Melissa asks. “I mean, are we in honor killing territory?”

“I'm more worried he'd just drug and kidnap me,” Allison says, without batting an eyelash, Christ. “Hunters know shady doctors; it's kind of a necessary thing.”

“Of course it is,” Melissa says, sighing explosively. “Right. So. Well, you're moving in, that's a done deal.”

Scott smiles like she just gave him a pony for Christmas, and it makes her want to hug him and slap him and weep.

“Thank you,” Allison says, faint and fervent and like she doesn't know quite what to feel either.

“Will he come after you here?”

“Yes,” Allison says, and there's no lack of conviction in her tone on that one. “He'll try not to do anything that would make the police get involved, but he knows you know about Scott, he'll expect you to cover too.”

“Oh, the police are becoming involved,” Melissa says, with feeling. “If I'm defending a pregnant teenager from her father's psychotic werewolf hunting cult, there are going to be _all the police,_ all the way involved, let me tell you that.”

“You can't -” Allison begins, alarmed.

“Stiles' dad,” Scott interrupts. “We could tell Stiles' dad. We almost did before, when things got bad with Jackson.”

“Right, we're doing _that_ like, today,” Melissa says, shaking her head. “I should have done that weeks ago. What about the other wolves, Scott? Will they . . help?”

“We can't go to Derek,” Scott says firmly, and at the mention of Derek's name, Allison hunches – it's like she actually becomes physically tinier, right where she's sitting, without even visibly moving.

“Your . . Alpha,” Melissa says, wrapping her tongue around the strangeness of it with some difficulty, because Derek Hale is still, in her mind, a shell-shocked boy a little younger than her son is now, standing in the ER with his big sister's arm wrapped around him like it's the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And now there's a whole new, even more horrific context for that and she can't . . . her mind tries to put that context and _this_ context together and it's too damned much and she just plain can't go there.

“Not _my_ Alpha,” Scott all but snarls, “but yeah, the local pack's Alpha.”

This is a subject Melissa thinks probably needs more exploration and less teenaged testosterone, from what the internet and Stiles have taught her about werewolf culture in the last few weeks - rejecting the idea of pack is not, it seems, one of her son's smarter life decisions, and that's saying something, that's _really_ saying something.

But that's a disaster for another day.

For now she asks, “Why can't you go to Derek for help?”

“I tried to kill him,” Allison says, going even tinier, but looking up to meet her gaze with those spooky, dead eyes. “I – I captured members of his pack. Boyd. Erica. I shot them. I tortured them. I can't ask them to – to be around me.”

Melissa just blinks. Allison just stares. Scott . . . looks uncomfortable in a way that is not remotely proportionate to the situation, really.

 “Why – why would you do that?” Melissa finally manages to rasp out. “Did your father make you?” she asks hopefully.

 “No. He tried to stop me, actually.”

 “He – I -” Melissa stops. Tries to think. Not much happens on that score. Her brain is full of fizzy, popping things. “Why would you do that?” she ends up repeating.

 “He bit my mother,” Allison says.

 “Your – but your mother killed _herself_ ,” Melissa says, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them. But she saw Victoria Argent, after, it wasn't a bite wound – there was no way that was a bite wound.

 “Because Derek bit her,” Scott interjects, softly and miserably. “She was going to turn.”

 “She -” Melissa manages to stop herself this time. She doesn't need clarification of that; it makes sense. Horrible, twisted, sickening sense, but still sense. “Why would _he_ do that? Derek. Why would he want to turn -”

 “I don't know.” The GPS in her car has more life to its voice than Allison does. “They had a truce, they were both after the kanima, my family and the pack, I don't know why – how -”

 And Scott is looking away from her and squirming, just a little. Allison doesn't pick up on it at first, but she picks up on the way Melissa is looking at her son, and then she says, “Scott?” and she sounds so, so lost, like her voice is coming down a long and windy tunnel.

 “It's over, it doesn't matter,” Scott says.

 “It does matter, Scott!” Allison insists, her voice rising – growing an emotion, though not one Melissa can name.

 Scott looks at Allison, and then takes both her hands in both of his, and he has his most earnest face on. “Can you just . . . not ask this?” he asks her. “Please? Trust me?”

 “No!” Allison exclaims instantly, her hands twitching out of his and wrapping around his wrists. “Scott, tell me! How could you not tell me? What do you know?”

 “You don't -”

 “Scott,” Melissa interrupts. “She does. Whatever it is, trust me on this, you are in for one bumpy ride together, don't start with secrets.”

 The look Scott is giving her is breaking her heart, but it doesn't change her advice.

 Scott turns back to Allison and says, “She tried to kill me. Not threats, I mean she really tried to kill me.”

 Melissa sucks in a shocky, shakey breath, but neither one of them notice. Scott wrenches one of his hands free to cup Allison's cheek when she starts shaking her head.

 “She found out -”

 “No,” Allison is arguing. “No, they weren't going to, she wouldn't just – without telling me – and the kanima, it was what was killing people, they were -”

 “Remember I told you she knew? About us?” Scott says. “It was right after that. She was – she was protecting you, Allison, from me, that's why she did it, I just didn't want you to know that was why – Derek was protecting _me_.”

 It's rather like all the pieces of a shattered glass flying back together, the way it suddenly comes together in Melissa's mind – impossible and sharp and brutal.

 “Oh God,” she says weakly, while Scott and Allison fall on each other, both crying, neither paying her the slightest attention. “Oh God, oh _shit_ , fuck, shit, _God_.”

Because she did this – she tried to be a good, responsible fellow parent and talk to the mother of the girl who her son was sleeping with, and . . . and she almost got her son killed.

_That fucking psychotic bitch tried to kill Scott._

. . . but then that psychotic bitch, that selfish fucking _bitch,_ killed _herself_ , rather than become what her son is. Killed herself and left her daughter.

Left this girl sobbing on Melissa's couch, pregnant with her son's child. A woman is dead because Melissa tried to do the right thing and had no idea, no _idea_ what was going on in her son's life.

 And looking back, with the awful clarity of this awful moment, Melissa can see things. Tiny things, things that maybe any parent would have ignored. But also not so tiny things. Pranks that obviously weren't pranks and coincidences that made very little sense and restraining orders. Things she didn't see because the picture they made was too big, too terrifying and incomprehensible. More than she could handle.

 Well, _that_ approach had clearly turned out well, hadn't it.

 “I'm going to go make us all some breakfast,” Melissa says, with a very brittle calm, pushing herself out of her chair. Her joints ache. Her head aches. Everything aches, but there's nothing for it. “And then we are going to go talk to Derek Hale. All three of us.”

 That gets her identical disbelieving, tear-stained looks.

 “Mom-” Scott begins, in a tone that means to continue as an argument.

 “Nope,” Melissa cuts him off. “That's what's happening. We're fixing this.”

 ***


End file.
